


Creating Sorrow

by a_little_hazy



Series: simping over my own lore [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Dehumanization, Found Family, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Piglin Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Piglin lore, Technoblade is Bad at Feelings (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), The Nether (Minecraft), check chapters for warnings, don't worry none of it is phil, i might add tommy in here idk, its the techno origins, phil is a good dad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28733802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_little_hazy/pseuds/a_little_hazy
Summary: Love and hate mingle, and together they create sorrow.Above all else, piglins are created to survive. They're built to withstand the harsh treatment of the Nether and its inhabitants. They grow up quick because they have to. Their instincts guarantee their protection.Technoblade was built the same way.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson, Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Phil Watson
Series: simping over my own lore [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064108
Comments: 78
Kudos: 478





	1. The Loss of Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> eyyyy let's get some techno lore! major major warnings for abuse, dehumanization, and violence in this chapter! really emotionally draining stuff so maybe take a nap and drink some water
> 
> I also find it important to note that techno's nails are naturally black

Above all else, piglins are created to survive. They're built to withstand the harsh treatment of the Nether and its inhabitants. They grow up quick because they have to. Their instincts guarantee their protection.

Technoblade was built the same way.

Technoblade was an odd child. He didn't have the nose of other squeakers, and his skin was a little lighter than everyone else's -even his tail, which was longer and less curly. But he had the same strength, had the same voice, had the same instincts. His nails were slightly shorter but still sharpened to a fine point, perfect for slicing and scratching. His ears were more pointy, but that just meant more room for decoration. He was taken into his hoard without much problem, even if he was a little odd.

Piglins had no concept of "family." They lived in groups and protected each other with their numbers. It would've been cruel, unheard of even, to leave the odd squeaker out by himself. He might need help. Everyone brought up the squeakers; there were no set parents. No siblings. The older piglins dedicated their time to raising the squeakers and give them the best chance at life in the Nether. There was just the hoard, and the ones that were truly special, marked by gifts. They took care of each other, the need to protect so deeply rooted in them it could be found even in zombified piglins. It was crucial for survival.

Even from a young age, Technoblade had begun to show the characteristics of a brute. His tusks started to grow in before the other squeakers, and older piglins had to show him the proper way to take care of them. Otherwise, they would curl into his cheeks and break the sensitive skin. He had begun to outgrow his littermates as well. He wasn't quite as big as the other brute squeakers, and that was okay; he was always a little odd. He still put the other, younger members of his hoard to shame.

Techno grew out long, wavy hair, unlike the other piglins. At first, he and his hoard considered slicing it off to keep it out of the way, but a young group of squeakers had grown quite attached to it. Soon, one of the hoard's healers discovered ways to style Techno's hair to keep it out of the way while still allowing it to grow long and keeping the young piglins happy. It became a common pass time for the hoard to decorate Techno's hair with golden chains and find new ways to pin it up. It made for breathtaking displays during ceremonies and celebrations and easy ways to calm fussy squeakers. Techno wanted to protect his hoard, like any other piglin, and keep them safe. He was getting restless, and with the added bruteness, everyone could see it.

So, he was given an axe, and he was taught to fight.

Technoblade showed promise, demonstrated the potential to be a valuable protector to the bastion. He was capable, and he learned quickly. He devoted himself to understanding what he was taught, being better, becoming the best. The older piglins began to teach Techno other things, too. How to work leather, grow netherwart, brew potions, and most importantly, work with gold. Every squeaker learned it at some point in their life, but it was always seen as a right of passage. The first ring, the first jewel, the first cast, it all had to be earned. And earn it he did.

It wasn't long before Technobalde rose in his ranks.

He and his hoard were in charge of a bastion with several large treasure rooms. Explorers were always after the gold, but it wasn't hard to keep them away. The Nether was a much crueler thing than any adventurer (Techno thought that for a while, at least). Wayward souls were dealt with, and the bastion was safe.

Technoblade did well to protect his hoard, protect their bastion, to honor the memory of his fallen piglin. His ears became decorated with gold, rings on his fingers, marking his first hoglin kill, the first battle won, first funeral. They told the story of his life, everything that made Techno himself. He had one ring that he wore on his tusk proudly. While it was technically given to him by one of his many mentors, it was from the whole hoard.

It marks the time that Techno had single-handedly found a group of squeakers that had gotten lost. They h. They had d accidentally angered several hoglins and were cowering in the netherrack. He fought the hoglins off by himself and returned every squeaker home, safe and sound.

Tusk rings were given for many reasons. To mark a significant feat in one's life or to show a much deeper connection outside of just a part of the hoard. What mattered was that they were not a light massage. It carried the weight of one's actions, of the good change they have brought to the lives around them. They were an honor, given only as gifts.

Techno had become the commander of his bastion not long after. He was skillful, calculating. He was one of the few commanders that regularly led battalions outside of the bastion, deep into the Nether. They never ran out of supplies. Despite being so abnormally young, Technobale dedicated so much of himself to everything he did. Barely fourteen years had passed in the overworld from Techno's time as a squeaker to where he was now. He hoard couldn't be prouder of the strange child they had raised.

Unfortunately, because of Techno's skill, his bastion became well known throughout the Nether realm and those who frequented it. More people knew of the treatures it was meant to protect, and more people became aware of who and what, Technobalde was. A hybrid. Rare. Powerful. Perfect to complete a sick collection.

A group of well-armed bounty hunters attacked the bastion one day. Techno was shaken by the small explosion they had detonated at the base of the bastion, causing the structure to sway uncomfortably. He called for a small group to follow him, rushing down towards the group of attackers.

Techno sliced through them with his axe, ripping their skin to shreds with his claws. He bared his tusks in a cruel snarl, throwing himself into battle with the rest of his hoard. The most important thing they needed to do was protect the gold. Protect the shrines and the statues, offers to the dead, and a sign of home.

Techno loaded his crossbow, shooting across the bridge he was stationed on at another man setting down TNT. Techno had seen explorers use it before to gather materials in the walls of Nether Wastes; he knows what it does. The man falls to the ground before he can light it, and Techno quickly orders other piglins to destroy it. They did what they could, but more often than not, the TNT would detonate before it could be destroyed.

The situation was quickly getting out of control. Explosions rang out, shaking the ground with their force. A man landed in front of Techno, a cruel smile spreading across his face. He said something that Techno couldn't understand, looking over him in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable. Although hardened by responsibility and battle, Technobalde was still a child. And suddenly, he was afraid.

The man pulled out a crossbow before Techno could react, landing a clean shot on him. As he stumbled back, Techno felt a strong sense of weakness was over him. The arrow smelled bitter, and his mind melted into foggy white noise. Before Techno could process anything, he felt something heavy collide with his face, sending him to the floor of the bridge. The man grabbed Techno's hair, ripping out the braid and jerking Techno's head around. Technoblade yelped in pain, hands clawing at the hand gripping his hair, but he couldn't get any reaction. The man yelled something out into the battlefield, and then darkness consumed Techno's mind.

The first thing Technoblade noticed when he woke up was that he was freezing. He shot up from the floor, hissing in pain as a migraine set in, making his head pulse. His tail wrapped tightly around his thigh, trying to ground himself. Squinting, Techno looked up and noticed a large set of bars in front of him. Bright, blinding light spilled in from behind them, lighting up the small room Techno was in. The floors and walls were made out of a material similar to blackstone, colored a light grey, growing an unfamiliar moss in the cracks.

Techno jerked up. He was in the overworld. His hoard had told him stories of what happens to piglings if they ever entered the overworld. Their skin, and their mind, would rot away and leave an empty husk behind. It's why they avoid the zombified piglings roaming the Nether. They're believed to be touched by the overworld. Techno quickly checked over his hands, seeing no rotting, or even feeling any pain that would be associated with it. He stared at his skin for a while. Had his hoard been wrong? If he was fine, surely the rest of his hoard should be too.

Techno reached up to touch his sore scalp, abruptly realizing his hair had been sliced off in jagged lines. He felt around desperately, hoping that it wasn't true, that his hair was still there and felt--his earing had been removed. All of his jewelry had been removed, actually. All of the memories, all the gifts, and reminders Techno had of his hoard. They were all stolen away. It had been replaced with a singular tag, dangling from his ear in a newly punched hole. His ear hurt when Techno touched it, and he could feel crusting blood. Had they stolen away his bastion, too? Destroyed the walls and watched them crumble, stealing the gold from his home. The gold that meant safety, that told his ever aching heart that  _ this person, this place, they are safe _ .

A figure suddenly blocked out the sun. Techno looked up, immediately recognizing it as the man who had shot him. Techno growled deep in his throat, shifting to lunge at the man when he quickly held up something. It was a tusk ring from one of his hoard members. Techno froze.

He couldn't understand what the man was saying, but he got the message.  _ We have your hoard. Do what we want, and they'll stay safe _ . Technoblade could only assume the bounty hunters had taken control of his bastion; why wouldn't they? They weren't above kidnapping a child, using his hoard as leverage. It seems fitting that they would have destroyed what was left after the battle with the rest of their TNT. The only thing he had left to protect was his hoard. The one thing Techno's instincts still screamed at him to do.

Techno complied. It was hard, watching all of these people around him without any gold on. Wearing gold had always meant a sign of peace. That the wearer meant no harm to Techno or his hoard. No one wore gold around here. They carted it around and sold it off, giving Techno a cruel sneer what they caught him starting. Every instinct he had screamed at him to fight,  _ fight, get away, find the hoard, find the gold means home and safety. You're in danger; find them. Destroy the threat _ . But he couldn't. He couldn't lash out, not when they cuffed his wrists to the wall, metal rubbing the skin raw until it bled. He had to comply. He had to behave, do what the people want. For his hoard.

He complied with the man when they didn't feed him, when he froze in a corner when it got dark (the people called it  _ night).  _ He behaved; he didn't protest when they shipped him off to a strange place, walls built up in a circle, walls filled with loud, loud things, and people who yelled and cheered and  _ watched  _ him.

Techno fought for his life when he was pitted against a strange creature. His hands shook as the people yelled excitedly every time he'd jab with his knife, and how they cheered when he killed his opponent. The man who took him was there when Techno was carted back to a small room, wrists bound and knife taken, and the man looked satisfied. Techno understood. He was expected to fight. He was expected to  _ win _ . The man was handed a bag of  _ gold  _ (home, safety), and Technobale had never felt so much loss in his life. Not when they stole away his hair or his memories, not when they destroyed his bastion in front of his eyes, but when the one thing that made him feel safe became the fuel for his suffering.

Technoblade decided, that night, in his cell, looking up at the strange white circle in the sky (the moon,  _ moon, moon, it was called the moon _ ), that he would use this.

The biggest mistake the bounty hunters ever made was teaching Techno how to fight in the overworld. When they forced him to learn to take down enemies three times his size. How to fight off more things he could count more often than he slept. In the Nether, fights were brutal. A show of strength. Dirty. Out here, it was much different. He learned how to use a sword with finesse. Use his power, his strength, and save his claws and tusks for a show. Techno was sickened by that word.  _ Show _ .

Every time they barked an order at Techno, commanded him to do something, he was listening. Putting the pieces together in his mind. When he was free of this place, when he was done with these people, he wanted to tell them in their language. He wanted them to understand his message, loud and clear. He wanted them to feel terror when he told them he was stronger than they ever hoped he'd get.

When Techno fought, when he won, the crowd cheered something. For him.  _ Blood for the blood god _ . They didn't cheer it for anyone else. It was Techno's, and his alone. It sickened him how much comfort he took in it. When his body ached and cried for food, for rest, for warmth, for safety and comfort, he supplied it with the chant instead. What sickened him, even more was when he began to chant himself. When he took pleasure in the carnage.

Techno grew. He doesn't know how much, but he knows that the world looked different when he first arrived at this place. In the overworld. The bars used to look bigger, and he used to be able to tuck himself into the corner, looking for warmth in the world he was dragged into. His tusks dug into his cheeks, and Techno's jaw ached in a way it hadn't ever before.

He doesn't know how long it's been. How much time had passed. He doesn't know how to keep track. Time passes so differently than in the Nether. The people outside, the people in the village, talked about something. About a  _ year, year, year _ . But what was that? An event? A ceremony? Time? How long was a year? The world transformed around him. Once, it was warm during the day. The temperature was bearable until it turned night. Then it wasn't. Once, the trees' colors reminded him more of home for a little, then the leaves fell. Then a freezing that seeped into the day set in. Techno shivered and distantly wondered if this was how striders felt when taken from the lava.

Every day Techno felt weaker. But he felt a little stronger too. With every battle won, he honed his skills. He put his mind to use, learning the languages of the people who stole him. Every meal denied served to stoke the inferno in Techno's chest, building up the rage he would use to free himself when the time came.

One day, after something they called a week ( _ week, week, week, seven days, seven long days _ ) filled with close battles, something (they called it a bird) fluttered into Techno's cell. Something shiny was clutched in its beak, quickly dropping it out of fear when Techno reached out. There, an earring from one of his hoard mates laid on the ground. He knew it well; he helped make it. He grabbed it with trembling hands, pulling it close when everything stopped. A putrid smell wafted off of it in waves. The distinct, unmistakable scent of rotting flesh. Of zombie piglin.

His hoard... had they...?

All Technoblade saw was red. The thing he was doing this for, the people he swore to protect, the sacrifices he made. It was all gone, rotted away in the place with him. Rage bubbles up in Techno's throat, and he can't tell if he's crying or screaming. Maybe both. His mind turned foggy, but he knew that somehow, he managed to tear the bars to his cell apart and scramble out. He rushes to where he had been suspecting his hoard was kept, praying that it wasn't true.

There, in a pile, bodies stacked on top of each other with no respect, no care, laid his hoard, rotting away. They had died. Probably long ago, when these people first took Techno. He never got to say goodbye. He never got to lay them to rest.

Techno grabbed a torch in frustration, throwing it onto the pile. It burst aflame, just like in funerals. This world was far too cold. Technoblade was going to make some warmth.

Yelling filled Techno's ears as the world around him began to burn down. If his hoard didn't deserve a proper burial in the eyes of these people, the people didn't deserve even a decent death in Techno's eyes. Techno dodged the sword swung at him, turning around the jabbing his attacker in the throat. He stole the sword, slicing his enemies down as they gathered around him. There was no mercy in his heart for these people—these  _ things _ . Instincts took over, rage taking over his mind compelling him to lay carnage to those who hurt him. WHo watched him suffer and did  _ nothing _ .

He stole an axe from a dead man. Lit houses on fire. Spilled the blood of anyone in his path. Anyone who dared live in this wretched village and profit off of his suffering. When he was stabbed, when his skin was slashes open and spilled blood, Techno couldn't feel it. He slaughtered everyone. Anyone. He looked into the eyes of a child before bringing his axe down on them.

A small group managed to steal his axe and his sword, but Techno was still armed. He always was. He clawed at their faces, slicing their flesh with sickening ease, digging his thumbs into their eyes, and snarling. He yelled something at the people. The fear in their eyes was the fruit all of Technoblade's labor had been for.

When Techno's rampage was done, when he couldn't tell if the blood covering his body is his own or others, Techno walked out to the edge of the village and just... sat down. He crossed over one leg over the other and watched the village burn. He didn't know how long he sat there; he'd become numb to time and the cold and the hurt. He distantly wondered if maybe his jewelry, his rings, and his memories of a better time were somewhere in the burning village, melting down and becoming a new part of the earth. Eventually, he feels something wrap around his body, and he's hoisted up. Quite murmuring fills his ears. He doesn't look to see who it is. He can't bring himself to care. He hopes, perhaps, the universe will be kind and let him join his hoard again.


	2. Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For now, he can protect one more kid. He hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of descriptions of corpses in this chap whoops. Stay safe y'all and sleep better than I do

Phil adjusted his grip on Wilbur's hand. Traveling with his son was always equal amounts of fun and stress. Wilbur, wonderful, sweet Wilbur, always had something interesting to say about the scenery but got hopelessly distracted and would wander away. And, when you're nearly a day's trip from any sort of civilization, and your fourteen-year-old child has disappeared into the woods, it can be quite terrifying. So Phil keeps a firm grip on Wilbur's hand.

Slowly, rising smoke comes into view over the trees, making Phil squink his eyes. Smoke means fire. There weren't any lava pools in their area as far as he knew, and no thunderstorms had happened recently. That meant that whatever sent this smoke into the sky wasn't natural. As the smoke grew and became more and more condensed, far more than any regulated bonfire, a strong sense of panic make its home in Phil's heart. He picked up the pace, Wilbur matching his stride, likely feeling the same concern Phil was. When they broke through the trees, they were greeted with a burning village. Phil slapped his hand over Wilbur's eyes. There were bodies.  _ Everywhere _ .

The stongs scent of blood hit Phil, mixing with the smoke and making Phil nauseous. Wilbur smells it too, pulling his sweater over this nose and gaging lightly. Phil's wings shuddered nervously, becoming tense and ready to fly off at any sign of danger. He quickly scanned the area, ears straining for any sign of life. All he sees are burnt bodies strewn about, some looking like they were crawling away from the carnage before meeting their demise.

Something small caught his eyes. Oh god, it was a  _ child _ . Sitting at the entrance to the village, watching the buildings burn.

"Wilbur," Phil says cautiously. "This doesn't look good, mate. There's a lot of dead people, but I see a kid, and we need to help. Will you be okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine." Wilbur clenches his hands and nods stiffly. Phil puts all of his heart into trusting his son's words.

Slowly, Phil removes his hand from Wilbur's eyes and begins to shuffle over towards the child. More and more dread fills his chest wither every cautious step. As they get closer, Phil can see more and more of the child's features: a tail, tusks that poke into his cheek, long point ears.  _ A piglin hybrid _ ? They're usually found in the Nether, but one being in the Overword wasn't  _ necessarily  _ unheard of. But nobody knows anything about them, was this his village? Had it been burnt down trying to get to him? What happened? God, the boy couldn't be much older than Wilbur.

Wilbur hangs back as Phil approaches the kid. He speaks softly to not startle him, but the kid continues to stare blankly into the carnage.  _ He must be in shock _ . He's bleeding, too, covered in blood. Phil prays that it isn't all his.

Slowly, he reaches out and touches the boy's shoulder. When he doesn't react, Phil pulls him close and cradles his body gently. He turns to Wilbur, who looks like he has just about as many questions as Phil. Phil's eyes drag over the expanse of the burning village one last time, ears straining for any sort of cry for help, and he doesn't know how to feel when he finds nothing. Relief that none would have to like with that kind of suffering? Remorse for the lone survivor of the tragedy?

"We should go," Phil ushers, hoisting the boy up and shifting him so that Phil could reach out a hand to Wilbur. Wilbur quickly takes the extended hand, and they leave.

Being cradled felt so alien after the time Techno had spent in that village. When the numbness finally seeped away, and his brain caught up with the fact that he was moving, Techno blinked. He made a soft, distressed snort and began to shift. He was quickly soothed by something, something that made his eyes droop as a comforting rumble filled his chest. At that moment, droopy-eyed and exhausted, Techno realized he was being carried. He was being carried by someone who housed a deep voice and low rumbles.  _ A man _ , Techno's brain screams.  _ Another man has taken you. _

He pulls back, trying to center himself, scanning with wider, terrified eyes. In his frantic looking, something caught his eyes. The man's hair, and the boy walking beside him, his sweater, they were  _ gold _ . They had gold.  _ They were safe _ , his instincts soothed, overriding the cold panic that had just been taking over his mind.  _ It's okay; these people mean home _ .

Techno's eyes pricked with tears as he clung to the man. A soft hand rubbed his back, and Techno didn't resist the way his tail wrapped around the man's waist.

Later, when he was thinking reasonably, he'd had time to feel scared and be wary of these people. But for now, for the part of him that was still a small, terrified squeaker, begging for a home he can never return to, this was enough.

Phil had a hard time unlatching the piglin hybrid from him, despite the fact he had passed out on the walk back. Wilbur hovered anxiously in the doorway, and Phil set the still unknown child on a bed to rest. The spare room they had had now become wholly dedicated to their new guest, for everyone's safety. He promptly turned his attention to began brewing potions. Phil thought of the hybrid, and his stomach churned in a discomfort he hasn't felt in years. He looked so... broken. What happened? Who did this to anyone, but especially a child?

The small bubbling of a potion's completion alerted Phil back to his tasks at hand. Several health potions, regeneration, anything he would think of that would help. He hesitated on brewing weakness potions, but years of instincts to be wary of the Nether's hostility brought his hands to brewing anyway.

With a small armful of potions, Phil moved back into the spare room. He set and sorted all of them by use and duration, carefully picking up a few sleeping potions and adding a few drops of weakness to them. He didn't want the poor thing waking up and panicking, primarily if Phil wasn't in the position to handle that situation. WHich he wasn't. Gently, he coaxed a sleeping potion down the hybrid's throat.

"Wilbur, could you get the first aid kit?" Phil asked, and Wilbur nodded quickly and ran off to retrieve the supplies.

Slowly, Phil began addressing the wounds. The blood that had soaked into his clothes began to dry and crack as Phil worked, making him cringe and shed most of his outer layers. Most of the wounds would need to be monitored for a long time, but some things concerned Phil more than all the blood. The boy's tusks had begun to grow into his cheeks, he was far too light for his size, and his ear was bleeding heavily from a large gap.  _ Had an earring ripped the skin? _ Quickly, his mind began to spiral on piglin's metabolism. How much food would he need? Phil knew how to fix the tusk situation, his own canines needed similar care, but Phil was quickly realizing he had no clue how to take care of a piglin. Let alone the extra challenges of whatever sides being a hybrid would bring out.

Phil sighs, leaning back and rubbing at his face. This was exhausting. Tomorrow, he would probably venture back out, without Wilbur, and look for any other survivors in the village. He had already looked and hoped, but he would never forgive himself if there was someone to help that he didn't. Possibly people who had gotten away and were coming back to look for things. Tiredly, he began to brew extra sleeping potions that would allow the hybrid to heal and keep Wilbur safe while in the house alone.

When Phil was finished, and more stitches than Phil could count were sown into the boy's body, he grabbed his clothes and retreated from the guest room. Wilbur surprised him with some food, which he took gratefully and began to clean up for the night.

He put Wilbur to sleep, then collapsed on his bed, exhausted.

The next morning, Phil explains the situation to Wilbur, who nods along and easily takes on the responsibility of giving their guest any and all necessary potions. Phil would always be thankful for Wilbur, for his ability to step up when needed, but it stood out now more than ever.

With a sigh, Phil heads out. He spreads his wings, taking off with a bit of a wobbly start. Under any other circumstances, this would've been a lovely day for a fly. The wind feels good against his face, chilling his hearted skin. But he couldn't stop thinking about the village, where he found a boy he doesn't even know the name of. Much sooner than Phil would like, the town comes into view, still smoking despite the fires getting choked out by night. Slowly, he circles the area, looking for any obvious signs of life. Phil doesn't see any, so cautiously, he lands and begins to sweep the streets.

There were bodies piled up everywhere. The longer Phil looked, the more he began to suspect more than a fire had happened to these people. Some were missing limbs, others with their necks slashed open and chests crushed. The smell of blood is putrid, even worse than yesterday, and Phil has to occasionally gag and any particular sight. Scorched flesh mingles with blood and smoke. It was the smell of death, Phil assumed. A death that the boy he saved had escaped.

A particularly large pile of bodies caught Phil's attention, all of them burnt beyond recognition. He tried not to linger on this. He had bigger things to deal with, like a boy who no longer had a family whose home was destroyed. Who was at his home, with his son, and this village is beyond salvation.

After making sure there was no life here that he was abandoning, even daring to glance into a house only to find the body of a child who couldn't have been older than seven, Phil leaves. He feels sick. What kind of monster would do that to a village? To all those people? Who would do that to the boy he saved, steal everything from him? Phil could barely fathom something so cruel.

When he gets back home, Wilbur is waiting for him. Phil shakes his head solemnly. Wilbur doesn't need words to understand, and he deflates a little. They've lived in the woods for a long time, neither are strangers to death, but human lives will  _ always  _ be different. Phil rubs at his face and moves towards Wilbur, pulling him into a loose hug.

"I'll watch our friend for a little; why don't you go rest?" Phil says gently, swaying with the wind that sweeps against the sides of the house. In the brief moment of calm, Phil's heart relaxes.

Wilbur nods and scampers off, quickly telling Phil that the leftover potions were left untouched in the guest room. Phil watches him go before breathing quietly to himself, for just a moment, before moving to the guest room. There, he finds the boy still sleeping, looking only slightly better than he did yesterday. Phil hadn't managed to get much blood off of the boy or out of his clothes, and he's pretty sure the bed sheets are beyond saving as well. But it can't be helped. He has spare shawls and spare bedsheets, but a child had no spare life. Phil wants nothing more than to cup the dying flames in his hands and nurse them back to life until, hopefully, he can see the true fire of a survivor.

Phil was reorganizing the medical supplies when he hears shifting behind him. He turns around to see the piglin hybrid, wide awake, staring at him with all the terror in the world.

"Oh, no, no," Phil says, crouching down. "It's okay. You're okay."

The boy shuffles back. He tried even harder to sink into the wall when Phil slowly extends a hand.

"N-no, stop-" The boy's voice is rough and has a heavy accent Phil can't place, but he stops, pulling his hand away.

The boy looks around the room quickly, clawed hands digging into the sheets and ripping them, breath fast and erratic. Finally, his eyes land on Phil's head, his hair maybe, and fixates on it. After a few seconds that feel all too close to a standoff, the kid relaxes lightly. Enough for Phil to move forward and give him a health potion, which he doesn't drink, but holds gently.

Eventually, Phil has to leave and make food for him and Wilbur, but the kid seems... alright. Not in the grand scheme of things. When Phil checks in next, the hybrid has passed out again. There's a lot of information Phil will have to unpack about this kid, but for now... For now, he won't disappear in the middle of the night, and Phil can help him fix his tusks. For now, Phil can worry and plan and research. He can tell Wilbur stories and cautiously lock the guest room door.

For now, he can protect one more kid. He hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dadza pog

**Author's Note:**

> *vibrates in piglin lore*
> 
> join the discord if you would like to vibrate with me!  
> https://discord.gg/72t5CFAKe3


End file.
